“A Sunday in Hell”: Into the velodrome, finally

We rejoin the final kilometer of the race with a shot from the rear of Hennie Kuiper in the back of the four-man breakaway, sitting up straight out of the saddle and stretching his arms. The narrator says, “The time is 10 past 5. A little relaxation before riding into the stadium.”

Next, we see Kuiper doing the funky turkey move with his legs, wobbling them from side to side, trying to shake the lactic acid out of his muscles before one of the biggest sprinting showdowns in his career.

The 1976 running of Paris-Roubaix, as masterfully documented in the film “A Sunday in Hell,” has come down to this: De Vlaeminck, Moser, Demeyer and Kuiper. Pretty much riding in that order. Last week, we saw Eddy Merckx make one last desperate attempt to bridge the gap, but it didn’t last long. It came much too late.

“De Vlaeminck and Moser have probably expended the most in building up and consolidating the breakaway’s lead. So, just how fresh are Demeyer and Kuiper?” asks the narrator.

If you’ve been following our careful – sometimes obsessive – analysis of this race for the past year or so, you’ll know that the narrator’s remark is a huge understatement. Has De Vlaeminck “probably” expended the most muscle fibers trying to keep this breakaway going? No. He has DEFINITELY invested the most in keeping the breakaway group a comfortable distance from Merckx. The last few kilometers have been a one-on-three contest, with De Vlaeminck being constantly attacked by the other riders. The Belgian hardman has put on a master clinic on how to respond to the challenges. With amazing reflexes and speed, he chased down each attack, nipping them all in the bud within seconds. It’s an astounding display of incredible athleticism and an amazing will to win.

We see the four leaders cruising down the road amid an eerie quiet. Then they turn a corner and we can hear the muffled cheering from the crowd in the velodrome. It makes our heart beat faster. Suddenly, the leaders are on the track! The announcer’s voice is booming in French.

It seems so ironic that a race that took the cyclists over so many stretches of brutally barbaric, Medievally cruel cobbles ends on a smooth track, a place that seems so civilized, scientific, modern and just. Few other sports do this to competitors, push them through such different worlds, make them compete in such contrasting environments.

Naturally, De Vlaeminck, the man who seems to want the victory the most, leads the group into the velodrome. The narrator says, “There have one and a half laps to do on the track. De Vlaeminck maintains his command of the situation. “

“A Sunday in Hell”: Only Merckx would do this

The camera doesn’t linger much on Eddy Merckx and that’s a good thing. We don’t like to see Eddy like this. There’s no fight in him. He’s beaten, exhausted. It’s sad. We’re so used to seeing Eddy living up to his nickname, The Cannibal, tormenting the pack, inspiring fear in everyone, voraciously eating up the road, humiliating his opponents. But that didn’t happen in Paris-Roubaix in 1976, as beautifully documented in the film “A Sunday in Hell” – which we’ve been revisiting almost weekly for more than a year, obsessing on all the film’s glorious details.

Eddy, past the peak of his career, inexplicably missed the break and found himself hopelessly gaped in the final kilometers by Roger DeVlaeminck, Francesco Moser, Marc Demeyer and Hennie Kuiper. We’ve all been there, that moment when we must accept reality and admit that we can’t bridge up to the leaders no matter how insanely hard we ride.

“Dutch Tour de France star (Joop) Zoetemelk is tired. Merckx seems resigned to his fate,” the narrator says as the camera focuses on the cyclingBelgian legend for a moment, though it seems like an eternity.  We’re tempted to look away, avert our eyes, because we hate to see Eddy this way. Then, thankfully, the scene abruptly changes and we’re far up the road, following the four-man breakaway.

The commentary picks up again: “Moser tries to make a break for it, but again, De Vlaeminck parries the move in a flash. And Kuiper again, but DeVlaeminck sees it and is on his wheel once again.”

But wait, we’re back to Merckx again. He’s moving his way up through the pack. The narrator says, ”Eddy Merckx, the race is over for him. He hasn’t been able to dominate this one.”

Then Eddy gets out of his saddle slightly and starts stomping on his pedals like a man possessed, with his hands in the drops and his head below his bars as he powers on.  “Suddenly, he mounts an attack. Only a Merckx would attack at this late hour,” the narrator says. You can’t help but love Eddy for giving it one last shot. It’s a surge fueled purely by pride. But it turns out to be hopeless.

“A Sunday in Hell”: De Vlaeminck looks for early showdown

The air is filled with the sound of team cars honking their Euro horns: “Bee baw bee baw bee baw!!!!” (Or is it: “Hee haw hee haw!!!) We’re treated to a wonderful arial shot of Roger De Vlaeminck driving the train, with Francesco Moser, Marc Demeyer and Hennie Kuiper on his wheel.

Welcome to our latest installment of “A Sunday in Hell.” For more than a year, we’ve been breaking down the fantastic documentary, sometimes frame by frame. Finally, we’ve reached the final kilometers of the 1976 Paris-Roubaix classic. It looks like the final contenders will be Flemish hardman De Vlaeminck, Italian superstar Moser, Belgian up-and-comer Demeyer and Dutchman Hennie Kuiper, proudly wearing the rainbow jersey.

“Kuiper is always in the rear. Is he tired or is he waiting for a chance to get a jump on the others?” the narrator says as the camera provides a profile shot of the riders hammering through a village. “That’s his speciality and that’s how he, a little unexpectedly, became the world champion last year.”

The rest of the way is all asphalt, no more punishing cobbles. The smooth roads will make it hard for the chasing pack with Eddy Merckx to catch up.  We see a great rear shot of Moser’s Sanson team car, with three bikes on a rack over the rear boot or trunk. A mechanic is hanging off the roof of the car, carrying a spare bike on his shoulder in case Moser is cursed with a mechanical and needs a fast swap.

“On the final miles, DeVlaeminck again keeps the pressure on,” the narrator says. “His pacemaking is tough and exhausting. It looks as if he’s trying to force an early showdown. By continuing his attacks, he’s hoping to drain the power from his three companions.”

Often in bike races, the athlete who works the hardest and deserves to win gets defeated. It’s one of the best examples of how our beautiful sport reflects life. By joining the race and competing with all our strength – physical, emotional and mental – we are often blessed with glory. But we’re also forced to cope with the other cruel outcome – defeat. That’s the way it goes in life in general. It’s these situations that bike racing prepares us so well for. It brings us immense happiness and satisfaction. But it also hardens us for the unpleasant possibilities. Still, we get back on the bike and ride again, hoping for new glory.

A Sunday in Hell: Battle ready to boil

At Waffles & Steel, we’ve been spending the past year or so reliving the 1976 Paris-Roubaix classic, as masterfully documented by the film “A Sunday in Hell.”  

We’re getting close to the finish – just 22 miles away. The lead bunch has been reduced to 25, with all the big names of that fantastic cycling era positioning themselves for a decisive move. Earlier, Eddy Merckx used a monster effort to devastate the field with no success. Eddy is a bit past his prime and not as dominant as he used to be.

The narrator says, “Freddy Maertens, his teammate Marc Demeyer and (Walter) Godefroot are at the front. Merckx has stopped trying to split the field.”

They’re jackhammering over a narrow cobbled primitive road that cuts through a farm field. Finally, they reach a section of modern pavement, and most of the riders get out of the saddle for a surge on the smooth surface – a great relief after the severe pave pounding.  

Oh no! There’s another crash! It will serve as foreshadowing for another awful event that will develop soon. But this time, one of the victims is the great Belgian cyclist Walter Planckaert. He’s sprawled out – his legs in the street, the curve of his back on the curb and his torso on a grass strip off the road. He’s not moving. His bike is trashed, with one wheel bent into a taco shape, the tubular half off the rim like a limp black snake.

After a brief lament about losing Planckaert, the narrator returns to the front:  “Up here, the battle is coming to a boil. Every other second the rhythm is broken by someone trying to break away. All the favorites are active now and have put themselves at the front of the field.”

He continues:  ”DeVlaeminck, Demeyer, Godefroot, Maertens. … They keep a sharp eye on each other. Maertens takes the lead. But off to the right, DeVlaeminck suddenly attacks. Way out on the side of the road, he pedals away in a new attempt to get free. Moser is the first to react, then Maertens. This time they know it’s do or die.”

They catch DeVlaeminck and we lose sight of the bunch as they round a corner on a spectator-lined road through a small town.  But as we clear the corner, we see it. It’s a crash! Someone is down! It’s Freddy Maertens!

He’s on his side, screaming in pain as he moves his body. When he’s helped to his feet, he immediately doubles over. He’s finished, out of the race. There’s a touching moment when he’s ushered into the white doctor’s car. Before he gets in, he stops to watch a mechanic pick up his bike and load it on top of a team car. In a time of personal tragedy, he still wants to be sure his ride is being handled properly, even though didn’t have to spend an entire month’s salary to buy it.  

The narrator says, “Maertens sadly ends the race as a passenger in the doctor’s car.”

“A Sunday in Hell”: A Golden Age

Welcome to the weekly revisit of “A Sunday in Hell,” a fantastic documentary about the 1976 Paris-Roubaix classic. This week, we see a paceline of cyclists barrelling over a brutal stretch of pave that cuts through a farm field. They’re actually riding on a thin ribbon of packed dirt on the road’s shoulder, sparing themselves the jarring, torturous experience of riding over the medieval stones better suited for ox carts and hooved ungulates than thin bicycle wheels.

 The narrator explains that with only about two hours left in the race, the riders are going crazy fast now. It’s hard to hang on to the wheel in front of you. Then he names the leaders. It’s a list that sends a chill up the spine. ”Maertens, Demeyer, Dierickx, Godefroot, De Vlaeminck and Merckx leading,” he says. “Merckx tries to break the others with his tremendous power.” They were all part of a Golden Age in cycling.  I planned to say a bit more about these guys, but I’m not. For those who know them, nothing more needs to be said. We just bow our heads and let ourselves be overcome with nostalgia.  For those who don’t know what I’m talking about: I can’t help you. Please go off and do your homework.